FIVE PUMPS
He was on the young side at twenty-three. A Korean guy from Seoul is moving to the US for an apprenticeship.
Sushi chef. A job that most guys didn’t have and I had the luck of meeting two in my two years of YOLO-ing.
T said he didn’t know English and I said that was fine. Of all the Korean guys, this one was a challenge. I was more than happy to speak Korean. Using my eyes, ears and body to communicate was sexy.
“Let’s meet at the park,” I texted in Korean.
He was cuter in person, with the curiosity of a puppy. We were shy at first. Talking in short sentences as our hands and bodies accidentally touched. The night was coming as the sky grew dark. I brought food I cooked. He was a foodie like I was and we both enjoyed the iPhone dinner in the park till everyone left.
I thought of jumping him then but the cougar in me paused. This could be more. I didn’t want to lose this chance of building a relationship of more than just sex.
Summer of 2024 passed and with it were tears and peanuts. I was tired of searching. Settling down wasn’t that bad and hanging with two or three Fwbs was way better than handfuls of one-day-stands.
We ended the night in my backseat of my car.
“Show me your pics,” he said.
I handed him my phone. They weren’t simply pics. They were my nudes and sex vids. He, like many naughty guys I’d met, loved my hidden folder. It was weird at first to be watching the guy staring at my body and sex tapes when I was sitting by his side.
His hand dropped to my lap, slowly stroking my smooth thicc leg. I wore a grey skirt with black laced T-panties. A tight white blouse under a jacket which I’d unbuttoned despite the Fall weather chill.
“I like this a lot.” He pointed to pics of my large ass pointing up. Panties stuck in the fold, splitting my ass cheeks into two perfect watermelon curves.
T was a butt guy — impulsive, risk-taker and passionate. It wasn’t just the Tatts which ran from his knuckles up his arm and to his shoulder.
I could tell from the way his eyes grew dark and dilated, between the insecurities of not knowing the language and hesitations of being more than twenty years younger, there was a beast cub.
The thrill. More than corruption was to let that wildness out. The mating of bodies and minds. Moans and growls. The thunder of pounding. The shaking of metal under the weight of each thrust.
I wanted that. All of it.
That night. It didn’t just end with a hand on a lap. With a car parked to our side and a driver doom-scrolling, T reached under my skirt and fingered me. Coaxing my folds with his chef fingers and rubbing my nub.
We kissed and he urgently grabbed my breasts, squeezing and sucking and thrusting his fingers into my wet pussy in rhythm over and over again.
Hands clamped on my mouth as I cummed and the guy in the other car pretended not to hear. T dropped his pants, bare butt as he climbed over me.
Hot breath misting my face. In a smooth motion, he wrapped his stiff staff. Condom clasping tightly around his cock when he flipped me over and doggy fucked me, again and again. His tatted fingers entered my mouth as he penetrated. Not once giving me a chance to breathe a good gasp of air as he pounded in me.
The doors slammed and a woman entered the other car. We stopped. The lights were on and we stopped. His dick in my vagina as my muscles held him like a vise. Our car and theirs playing dare on who should go first.
They didn’t leave.
All the bravado and impulse ended and he pulled out with a sigh.
“I like making you cum.” He pulled up his pants.
“Let’s go…” I whispered.
“No. Not done,” he pulled me back down under the window, and pawed my wet pussy. Grabbing my ass as I tried to protest.
One hand over my mouth, he coaxed another orgasm and after I was done, he wiped his fingers over my lips.
“We meet again,” he said.
I nodded. And the day came and I met him at a hotel. With a bag full of tricks and many naughty thoughts in mind.
It was his first coming to a hotel and as I checked in, he stood by my side. Unlike the many guys who sneakily went ahead or hid in the lobby as I paid the bill.
Not sure when that started. It wasn’t my intention to pay. Who ever said the Milf Cougar had to foot the bill? Where was the chivalry of the past? Just because I was older?
“Why are you paying?” H often asked.
“I don’t know…” I sighed. “How do I ask them to split?”
“Just demand it. They should pay. They’re getting you for free.” H hated that I did this. Indirectly it was his money and I got that.
“Well. Make sure you’re having fun.” True. If I’m going to foot, I’m gonna eat well.
Except it wasn’t the case. In fact, mostly not. And maybe that was why I’d rather play in the car and get a quickie instead. And if he was worth it, I’d host for extended fun.
“Get them older. If you keep picking up college students, you’d have to foot the bill,” H advise.
I agree. It wasn’t like I intended it to be like this. Age is just a number. All things should be equal. And these days, after reaching my two year mark, I wondered what was I doing.
We got into the room. Suddenly with the lights on and the smell of fresh linens, we were both nervous. After a week of trading pics and vids. Him jerking off in the bathroom of his workplace, and I with my sex tapes, we were ready to smash and bang.
I brought cooked food again. The mom in me couldn’t help feeding the men I met. Which looking back it was doom from the start. Pampering them only made them forget who I was. A cougar didn’t care if her prey is fed.
Was it always true? Did food end it all? Or was the young age which made it a fail?
I couldn’t remember who started first. The clothes were coming off and he was pleasuring me with his fingers again. I cummed once and gave him a blowjob to repay the favor. The condom was taken out and that was when the nerves started.
“I didn’t have sex in a long time,” he said.
“It’s okay,” I replied. But in my haze, I didn’t pick that up. I’d always thought an erection was an animalistic reaction to procreate but lately after having seen a few pee-pees, I learnt one important fact.
Mind over matter.
Like women, sex was a mental state. Performance in a over-thinking male could result in a shrinking violet.
He climbed over me and pinned me down. Ready for a doggy and excited to mate. But after the first thrust and followed by four more, he came.
“Mianhae…mianhae..mianhae…” he kept repeating. “Sorry, too fast.”
“It’s okay,” I said, getting up. I was as shock as he was. Things went beyond fast and in less than a minute, it was over.
We tried to make the best of it. Me, changing into a Japanese school girl outfit and feeding him food so he won’t think of his five-pump performance.
I felt bad for him, and I could see a dark cloud over his head.
“Men feel bad too about their performance. If you think it is bad, I bet you the guy feels worse. They’ll remember this forever,” said H.
“Well, girls feel terrible too. Did I do something wrong? Why couldn’t he get hard?” I said. “It hurts my ego too.”
Sex isn’t that simple. The long and short of it.
As humans, our thinking brains make us more than just animals. And maybe it was this that builds trauma and performance anxiety.
We are not animals. But sometimes, I wish we were.